


Kindling

by TheArchaeologist



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Child Neglect, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Family Feels, Gen, Number Five | The Boy Has Issues, Number Five | The Boy Needs A Hug, Number Five | The Boy-centric, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22723504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArchaeologist/pseuds/TheArchaeologist
Summary: The fire crackles, the night draws in, and Five sits and stares into the flames, reminiscing.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 177





	Kindling

The fire crackles.

A breeze floats along, bringing with it several reeking odours, tickling loose rubble and sending bits scattering down the piles of brick, wood, and stone, dusty mountains of mortar which periodically collapse under their own weight. Out in the distance, far from sight, something flaps, some scrap of fabric, perhaps the remains of a curtain or someone’s coat they once wore to fancy dinners, which smacks against the jagged remains of a wall with every other beat. It is not loud, but noise carries, stretching over miles in this otherwise silent world.

There is no moon out tonight, nor has there been any night so far, hidden away under the clouds which spread across the sky like a thick layer of icing, not letting an ounce of the atmosphere above break through and bring with it fresh air and warm sunlight.

Unbothered by the late hour, the ash continues to fall, catching the orange glow of the fire as it settles in Five’s small circle of visibility. The scarf he is using for a mask remains tight around his nose, the knot digging into the back of his head, but it does little to dispel the thick, coating taste smothering his tongue.

He gulps, as if swallowing dry saliva now will miraculously clean his palate when it has failed him every other time today.

By the knee of his crossed legs are his goggles, reflecting back the fire, the ash, the husk of the world around them. If Five was to let his mind drift a little, he could almost mistake the image as snow. The type where the flakes fall giant, making them easier to catch on the tongue, and builds high enough to reach the waist.

Five only ever had the chance to see snow like that once, when Dad drove them north for a training week. He had left them at the edge of a forest, Five does not know which, with instructions to meet him on the other side by the end of the week. They must have made for a sorry sight, a pathetic little group of kids gathered by the roadside with heavy backpacks and woollen hats courtesy of Mom with their numbers stitched on.

Klaus had convinced Diego to taste yellow snow.

Allison had rumoured Luther to set up all their tents for them for the entire duration.

Ben had made snowman replicas of his family, which then turned into a snowball fight over creative differences.

Off in the distance, fires rage, still ploughing through whatever fuel ignited them in the first place. They set the clouds aglow, like night pollution, shining deep navy blue with amber.

Wet tracks divide canyons down Five’s face, splitting dust and soot with clean rivers. His eyes sting, from the fine grit in the air and the heat of his campfire and rubbing them does nothing but aggravate the particles already caught beneath his eyelids. 

He sucks in a shaky breath, feeling his chin jitter. Tearing his eyes away from the fire, he stares down to find his fingers shaking.

A layer of blackness has gathered under his nails, the result of days digging through the remains of other people’s lives, through shops and schools and sports centres, all in the hopes of finding something that will get him through the next few days, something that could save him. One of them keeps catching, on his clothes, on his mask, on his hat, and has already managed to rip a decent sized hole in his sleeve.

The fire crackles.

Moisture starts to dampen the mask around his face, sticking it to his skin uncomfortably. Five sniffs, noisily, loudly, pulling his shoulders in tighter around him.

“Now, now, you know you’re not supposed to be up here.”

Blinking, Five quickly wipes his face on the back of his hand, clearing his throat.

“Hey, Mom.”

Sitting delicately beside him, but not enough that they touch, Mom carefully arranges her skirt around her legs, making sure to keep the material a good distance from the makeshift campfire Five has haphazardly constructed on the roof. Her hair blows gently in the wind, the noise of car horns and late-night drinkers rising among the city buildings. The air is clear, as is the sky.

“Your Father would not approve of you playing with fire.”

Five snorts, but there is little humour in it. His tongue feels too big for his mouth. “He’s not here anymore.”

“No, he is not.” Mom agrees, and then waits, obviously expecting him to say something, an explanation, perhaps, a reason why he decided to cause a hazard on top of their home, however when Five remains silent she turns to watch the flames instead. A frown crosses her face. “What did you use as wood?”

“The table in the spare room next to the library.”

“Five,” Mom’s tone is scornful, but not in the way Dad’s use to be, the one that made them all flinch and stand to attention, “You really shouldn’t be using furniture for such things.”

Five eyes feel heavy, as if someone has pulled to plug and let all his energy spiral down the drain. He smiles crooked at her, shrugging a little. “I doubt anyone will miss it.”

Mom does not seem convinced, tutting at him disapprovingly, but she says no more on the matter. She returns her gaze back onto the fire, her pure blue eyes glowing from the dancing light, and Five studies her, his hands clammy on his lap and his skin chilled through the thin material of his pyjamas, even with heat so close.

The stitching on her arm is exposed in her current outfit, a stark and unsightly scar on a being designed to be perfect. She never seems to care, though, no matter how many times Diego brings up that they should try and do something about it. His worries get easily whisked away with cookies and other sweet delights.

Mom pipes up, gaze still away from him, “Do I need to change the bed?”

“Hm?”

“This is the eighth night in a row where you haven’t slept in your room.” Mom says, a touch bluntly, golden ringlets bouncing as she swivels around to face him. “If you want, the mattress can be changed, the whole bed if-”

“No, no,” Five cuts in, hating the way his mood seeps into his voice, “It’s not the bed.”

“Oh. I see.”

A lapse of silence falls between them, Mom waiting once again, patiently allowing Five to gather his thoughts, while he fiddles his fingers together, the smoke brushing against his face as the wind continues to glide over the rooftop. The door leading up from the mansion knocks against the wall, swinging and singing on its hinges.

A question strikes through his brain, quick and dizzying, and before he has the chance to process it himself, Five’s mouth is already asking, blurting, “Why do I miss it?”

“Miss what?”

“The…” Five’s words stick in his throat, and his chest feels heavy with a breath he cannot take, “The apocalypse. The end of the world. The end of something. I don’t…I don’t get it, I’m back, I’m fine, so why…” Trailing off, Five rakes his fingers through his hair, locks still slightly damp from his shower earlier this evening, staring into the flames as if they will provide the answers he needs.

After a beat, Mom leans forward. “Nightmares are nothing to be afraid of, Five.”

“Nightmares?”

“All your siblings have them.” Mom comforts reassuringly, smiling red lipstick and reaching to take his hand. “But they can’t touch you here. They are nothing more than images inside your mind.”

A flicker of something heated and dark curls within Five’s chest, barely an ember in the wind. “There aren’t…This isn’t about _nightmares_.”

His correction goes unnoticed, unheard, or ignored.

“It’s ok to admit these things, Five, you aren’t weaker because of it.” Her fingers, cold and smooth and synthetic, lace with him, a solid presence in his shivering ones.

Working his jaw, Five shakes his head and looks away, gazing out over the rooftops with hard eyes and grit teeth.

A part of him wants to snap at Mom, to yell and scream and keep going until his voice is rough and raw. He wants to drill into her what happened, what went wrong, why her arrogant, prideful son vanished into thin air and did not return until it was nearly too late. He wants to shake her, to beg her for answers she does not have and understanding she does not possess.

The other part of him, however, knows Mom is not Dolores. She has no idea how to put up with him, his bullshit, his nonsense concocted in his brain and spat out in front of his eyes. She is sweet words and simply fixed problems, not hard truths he needs to hear or years of shared experiences. She will not tell him to get a move on, to get on with it, to stop moping like a spoiled brat suddenly given boundaries and sort things out for himself.

Dolores was his keeper; she always knew how to care for him.

It would be nice if she was here.

It is this second part of Five that makes him release a slow breath, an anchor on his sternum, and squeeze her hand back, forcing a smile that feels tight across his face.

“Thanks, Mom.”

She returns the gesture, pleased, as if she has somehow set all the wrongs in the world right.

A plane flies overhead, blinking a lone red light across an indifferent sky.

“Now,” With that same tone she used on all of them as children, Mom stands, their hands still locked, “Why don’t we put this out, and I go make you a nice glass of warm milk to settle your nerves? We can add a little honey, to sweeten it.”

“Yeah,” Also getting to his feet, Five nods, biting at his tongue. Something within sinks to his feet, and then drops through the world completely. “Sounds great.”

As it gets doused, the fire hisses.

**Author's Note:**

> Five loves the inanimate ladies in his life, ok?
> 
> Mama Hargreeves is trying, she just…Gets a little confused, sometimes…
> 
> [Tumblr](https://ancientstone.tumblr.com/)


End file.
